Change
by enigma013
Summary: Prequel to Now You See Me. Jack Wilder was a common thief in NYC, but was slowly rising in the ranks. After running into some trouble during a con he happens across a quiet girl with a generous soul. Or happens to be hit by her. Jack/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Now You See Me. **

**A/N: This will be a short first chapter, but I expect the following ones to be much longer. Sort of an introduction.**

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**One**

Everything about torrential onslaughts screamed 'Macbeth'. Isn't that how they use suspense in the movies? Throw some water from the sky, put a girl on a dark road, add the clouds over the moon and a rattily air conditioner, and there you have it—a scene straight from Macbeth.

Okay, well, if Macbeth had happened somewhere in the twenty-first century and involved a slim brunette with rain-soaked hair. At least, that's what Aria Littlebrook thought as she gripped the steering wheel and edged the car through Queen's borough.

There were streetlamps at every corner, but rain flowed so hard from the sky that it blotted out any guiding light and only served to refract a gold and white glow. The small G6 crept through the water and darkness at a snail's pace, its driver hunched over and peering through squinted eyes just to make out the lines on the road.

So really, it was the rain's fault she hit him.

His tall frame darted out from nowhere; one moment, she was passing through an empty intersection, and the next, a dark shadow detached itself from the road and connected with a solid thud with her front bumper.

Aria slammed on the breaks, propelling herself and all the loose clutter in her car forward. Her seatbelt caught across her chest and yanked her back in a whiplash motion. As everything settled, she slumped her shoulders, caught her breath, and listened.

Something moaned outside.

"Oh my God," she murmured, frenetically unclicking her seatbelt and searching out the door handle. She shoved the door open and scrambled out. Her headlights illuminated a dark figure collapsed on the road—a man, she saw upon closer inspection, clutching his abdomen and groaning.

"Oh my God." A wave of panic crashed into her so hard that she nearly lost her balance. Falling to her knees beside the man, she brushed her hand over his arm, trying to catch his attention.

Her hand came away with blood. It flowed right off her skin, washed away by the crying skies.

"You're bleeding." Aria pressed her hands to her face, trying to quell the bubble of hysteria inside. "Think, think. I need to call an ambulance—"she glanced towards the car. "Get your phone, Aria, just—"

The man suddenly reached out and grabbed her wrist. "No—no ambulance," he croaked. "No."

Aria stared down in shock. She stuttered a great deal before making any words. "But you're bleeding. I did this to you."

He rolled onto his back. Dark hair was plastered to his forehead—Aria couldn't differentiate between sweat and water—and his equally dark eyes closed once more as he gasped in pain. "I'm fine. I just… need a minute."

"You need a doctor." Aria reached out and paused; her hand hovered over his, where he clutched his apparent wound, uncertain. "You're going to bleed out right here if we don't do something." She made to stand, but his grip on her wrist tightened.

His dark eyes peeled open to look at her. Aria was surprised to discover a look of pleading in them, as if she held his very life in her hands.

She suddenly realized that she very well could.

"Please," he croaked. "No ambulance. No hospital."

She looked very plainly at him and wondered aloud: "Why not?" When he gasped in pain once more, she shook herself—she was asking for an explanation while he bled out on the street?

Tugging her wrist out of reach, the man begrudgingly released her as she stood and crouched beside him. Her fingers wrapped around his bicep, and she asked, "Can you stand?—we have to get you in the car."

He eyed her with that look of pleading and something else. "Just go. You didn't do this to me. Just go and forget what you saw."

Aria stood her ground. "No." Her voice cracked, and she cringed at how weak she sounded. She tugged on his arm and cleared her throat. "Stand."

They locked eyes for several moments; Aria trying to be resolute, while the man seemed to weigh his options. At last, he grunted and got to his feet, with a little help from her. Tucking her arm around his waist, she half dragged, half walked him to the passenger door. Just two feet away, he lost his balance; their weight swayed together, and Aria found herself pinned to the car, while he rested his hands on either side of her to stay upright. He groaned in pain again—his right hand shot back to the wound on his stomach—and Aria flinched.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Come on." She settled him in the seat and hurried around to return to hers.

It suddenly occurred to her that he was bleeding all over her leather seats; she turned to him in horror before perusing the back seat and finding the new dress she bought earlier that day. With a frown, she snatched it up and tossed it on his lap. "Can you try to keep it off the seats?"

She didn't miss the glare he threw at her.

"Right—uh, it's okay, just bleed—I mean—oh God, never mind."

Shifting the car in drive, she wiped the rain from her eyes and pressed on down the road. They sat in silence for several minutes; the only sound being the pitter-patter of rain on the roof and the rattle of the air conditioner.

Finally, the man asked, "What's your name?"

"Aria," she murmured, stealing a glance at him. He had balled the dress up and held it over his shirt, where the darkest of blacks seemed to blossom like a flower. His eyes were pinched tight, and he locked his jaw as if he was trying very hard to ignore the pain. Aria turned away by the time he glanced over at her.

"Jack."

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	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Now You See Me.**

**A/N: Pretty good response for only a thousand words… So here's the next chapter. A little longer but not the length I wanted because I cut it in half. Didn't want to make you wait too long.**

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**Two**

It was hard to ignore his heavy breathing—just the sound of it reminded Aria that she had welcomed a complete stranger into her car. A complete stranger with a mysterious aversion of hospitals, who was currently bleeding all over her beautiful new dress.

She knew she shouldn't have bought it.

As she was crossing over into Brooklyn the thought occurred to her that she had to decide what to do with him. Stealing another glance, she noticed his head now rested against the window, his eyes still pinched, but the cinch of his jaw had slackened and the lines in his forehead disappeared.

Without his agonized expression, it was easier to see the planes of his cheekbones, his heavy forehead, strong jawline…

A passing car honked angrily, forcing Aria's eyes back to the road as she jerked the car back in her lane. A blush fell upon her cheeks. Did she really just check out Tall, Dark, and Bloody?

"If you're taking me to the hospital, it'd be a good idea not to kill us both," he mumbled bitterly.

He sounded so defeated.

"Ugh." Aria palmed her face and scowled. You're too nice, she told herself, he could be a cannibal. Maybe he's not even hurt. He could be preying on your so obvious inability to let things go… "I'm not taking you to the hospital."

They were both surprised by her words, but Jack was the one to raise his eyebrows and squint over at her. "You're not?"

His words were beginning to slur—from exhaustion or something else, Aria didn't know. All she knew was that sad-hopeful puppy look he gave her… Ugh.

"No."

He settled back against the window, seeming to deliberate this as his eyes closed once more. "Then where areyou… taking me?"

His eyelids were fluttering, his voice lower and lower.

She turned to answer him, but he was already asleep.

* * *

"What…?" Jack flinched when she roused him. He cringed—there was a throb throb throb right below his chest, on the left side of his body, and a dull ache began in his head. His eyes blinked drowsily open to the sight of a girl—Aria, it was—standing at the passenger door, bent over and unbuckling his seat belt.

Jack grabbed her wrist and made her pause as he gathered his thoughts. He didn't notice the way she shifted nervously on her feet.

Bits and pieces of their conversation returned to him: the most important being that she wasn't taking him to the hospital. He turned his heavy-lidded eyes to their surroundings, brows furrowed in confusion.

Aria read the look off his face. "My apartment building," she explained. "I didn't know where else to go."

Gingerly, with the movement of an uncertain child, Aria peeled the blood-soaked dress away from Jack's shirt. Her eyes widened.

"Your shirt's been slashed open," she observed. "As if someone…" She stopped and met Jack's gaze before gently moving the torn fabric, revealing red flesh underneath. "As if someone stabbed you." Her voice ended in a tremulous puff; her face paled of all color. She remembered his words from earlier: You didn't do this to me.

Jack studied her expression. His mouth warped into a bitter smile. "You still wanna help me?"

It was a sarcastic remark, but Aria shook it off. So what if he got stabbed? Sure, it could have been for a good reason—he could have been mugging someone, for all she knew. But she couldn't just leave him there on the street to bleed. Not when she got him this far.

She took a deep breath and returned the dress to the wound, all the while wondering where she put that handy Taser.

"I'm on the fourth floor," she said without looking at him. "You think you can make it to the elevator?"

"I think I don't have another choice."

It made Aria sweat to think she'd get all close and cozy with him again, but there was no avoiding it. She helped him to his feet and allowed him to lean on her once more as she wrapped her arm around him. They hobbled together towards the shabby building's entrance. At least twice his knees buckled, forcing Aria to pick up the slack. But in her haste to hold him up, her hand brushed right over the wound and he gasped aloud.

"Sorry sorry sorry!" Aria bit her lip and called the elevator. "Oh God, I'm sorry."

Jack tried brushing off his obvious pain, to no avail. "It's—fine."

They shuffled on the elevator and Aria pushed 4. The elevator car jerked up before settling into a smooth ascent; the ride was silent and awkward (on Aria's part) as well as agonizingly long (on Jack's). By the time the pair made it to Aria's door, both were exhausted and frustrated.

They had to walk in sideways in order to make it through the narrow doorway.

"Watch your step," Aria cautioned as they made it down to the sunken hallway.

Once she got him to the couch, he lowered himself onto the cushion and sighed in relief.

Aria didn't waste time—(she was thinking of all the blood he'd get on her sofa)—and rushed to the kitchen to grab a bottle of Jack, all the while ignoring the irony. She placed it on the coffee table before him—before she could turn around, Jack had snatched the bottle up and took a generous swig.

"No!" Aria darted forward to grab it from him. "That's to clean the wound!"

Jack gave her a goofy smile and shrugged. "There's another wound," he said, sighing dramatically. "My heart."

Aria rolled her eyes. "I'll be right back." Before turning around, she fixed him with a level gaze, as if she were scolding a child. "_Don't_ drink anymore."

"Yes ma'am," he saluted and laid his head back against the armrest, smirking to himself.

Jack wasn't so giddy after Aria returned with the first aid kit. He frowned at the blue bag, where she set it upon the coffee table whilst she fetched a warm washcloth. When she seated herself on the table, she, too, frowned.

"So you're like a nurse or something?" The words mingled together, as if he wasn't sure which word came first.

Aria bit down on her lip and stared at her feet. "No, I uh… I'm certified in CPR. But that's about it."

"Well," Jack said, "this'll be a good story, huh?"

"Sit up."

He peeked up at her through one eye, and Aria couldn't for the life of her deny its cuteness—no matter how dazed he was acting. He gripped his abdomen in preparation to shift upright and grunted when he rested his back against the couch.

She perused the rest of his handsome features—subtly, she hoped—before her eyes landed on another dilemma: the matter of his shirt. It was a cotton v-neck—the kind to be pulled over the head—and there was no way in hell it'd come off without some battle scars.

"Um," Aria shifted on the coffee table and grabbed the scissors. "I hope this isn't your favorite shirt."

Jack eyed her wearily and shrugged.

Without much grace, Aria leaned over him and gingerly grabbed the hem of his shirt; she couldn't contain the flurry of nerves that gathered in her stomach at their close proximity—her fingers brushed the hard muscle of his abs, his breath tickled her ear—and outwardly shivered at the contact. Gnashing her teeth together, she focused solely on the task of cutting open his shirt, and did so slowly and steadily.

The effort was lost, because midway to the top, she felt his eyes on her and she paused to meet his gaze.

God, who knew someone could have such richly colored eyes?

Aria blinked rapidly and forced her attention back to the task. The thin material sliced easily, where it wasn't coated in thick coagulations of blood; before she realized it, the shirt was cut open from top to bottom, and Jack's bare skin lay underneath.

A gasp left her lips at the sight of his knife wound. There hadn't been nearly enough lighting in the car when she'd first inspected it. Now, the warm overhead lamps illuminated every tear in the skin, every slash, every drop of blood that leaked from the wound.

"That bad?" Jack quirked an eyebrow at her.

Aria just stared at him with wide eyes. "You need stitches."

He stared back, undaunted. "Can't you sow?"

"That's different!" Aria stuttered. "It's fabric, not _skin_."

"Well, just think of it as fabric."

Aria threw her hands in the air. "Fabric doesn't _bleed_."

She was so consumed in her worries and thoughts that she didn't see him reach out to touch her, to grab at her wrist and wrap his fingers around the circumference of it in a feathery hold. All the air flew from her lungs; her eyes grew wide, finding him staring at her in that sad-hopeful puppy way of his.

Well goddammit.

"Aria," he went all romance-novel on her name, though the effect was dampened by the barely-there glaze in his eyes. "I don't really have a right to ask this of you, but please. Can you try?"

She all but melted under his gaze. "I'm so gonna regret this."

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The cloth was warm in her hand as she ran it over his skin. It came back in blotchy shades of pink; the blood continued to drizzle from the wound, relentless though slow.

Jack gritted his teeth as the alcohol was poured over it. His fingers dug into the armrest, knuckles bone-white, muscles clenched.

Aria fetched a lighter to heat the needle with—that was truly the extent of her knowledge of stitches. She sat before Jack, chewing her lip and staring worriedly down at the tools surrounding her.

Jack laid his hand over hers, his eyes relaying was his mouth did not speak: you can do this.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Aria threaded the needle and kneeled on the floor. She tried focusing on the wound, but what girl wouldn't notice the wonderful muscle lining his body, the curves of the love-arrows, the dip in just the right place…

Aria pinched her eyes shut and breathed. Oh God she was as bad as a teenage boy.

Setting the needle to his skin was difficult, for her hands were trembling. Jack observed the dilemma and urged, reassuringly, "Just breathe. It's just like sowing."

Several deep breaths later, her hands were considerably stiller. She placed the tip of the needle to his skin and—_don't think about it don't think about it—_applied pressure. The needle was met with resistance—the kind that could only be associated with human flesh. Aria took sharp breaths through her nose and continued threading the wound. Up, around, over, up, around, over… Until the pink flesh was obscured by black thread.

Jack finally relaxed; his shoulders slumped forward, he rolled his neck back, and a sigh came from his lips. "Can I have that bottle of Jack now?"

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	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Now You See Me.**

**A/N: Short chapter, but it's easier to update faster. To all my TVD readers, the next chapter for The One That Got Away will be up very soon. Thank WhisperedxNothingsx!**

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**Three**

The heartbeat of New York—a clamor of human and mechanical music that hummed outside the windows well after midnight—had long ago lulled Jack into a fitful sleep. Aria remained by his side, tossing with fear at the thought that she might've done the stitches wrong. Sleep eluded her and she didn't bother chasing after it—not with a stranger _here_, in her home of all places.

Because where the hell had he gotten stabbed? And by who? With an immense amount of effort, she tried to push the thoughts from her mind—what did it matter to her?

But her mind just couldn't let it go.

Sighing, Aria sat up for the millionth time that night and stared at the mysterious man on her couch.

God, he was hot. Like Abercrombie-model-hot.

Part of her wondered if, he hadn't looked the way he did, she would have even helped at all. It was a morbid thought, but Aria wasn't a saint and didn't have any claims to be. She knew, deep down, that the handsome angles of his face were a considerable part of the reason for helping him.

That, and she really didn't want to get arrested for a hit-and-run.

But sometimes it gets hard to remember that hot guys can be creeps, too.

She felt like a pervert for staring at this wounded, unconscious man—hell, she practically was a pervert, since she couldn't keep her eyes off his bare chest.

But _damn_, he was pretty built for being so slender.

A twinkling light from outside glanced over Jack's skin—it was only then Aria noticed the spritz of sweat covering his chest, his forehead, his cheeks. A line formed between her brows. The apartment was cool; the air condition was at least in the sixties (she couldn't sleep otherwise), and the overhead fan was leveling out the air and sending bursts of cold upon them.

If she touched him, would she _really_ be a pervert?

There was hardly any way to avoid it. Tentatively, her hand reached out towards him and finally came to rest on the side of his face. A caress, she realized, with a gulp of air—but the thought was dashed away as soon as his hot skin dawned on her.

He had a fever.

"Well oh _shit_," she muttered, tracing her hand up to his forehead, down to his chest. He was hot and not in the way she had previously observed. Her thoughts raced. Could the wound have gotten infected? Could she have done something wrong?

It didn't really matter—not until she cooled him down.

After fetching a glass of water and some Tylenol, she sat beside him and brushed his shoulder.

"Jack."

He murmured and scrunched his nose, but the tendrils of sleep were still wrapped around him.

Gently, she grabbed his hand and squeezed. "_Jack_."

"Hmm?" His eyes didn't open, but she knew he'd woken. At least in some sense. He shifted around and pulled her hand with him, causing her heart to flutter as she snatched it back.

"Jack, I need you to sit up. You need to take some medicine."

His brow furrowed, forming lines across his forehead. "No."

Aria rolled her eyes. "Yes. Get up before I poke you where it'll hurt."

A sleepy snicker came from his lips; he smirked and peered up at her through slitted, drowsy eyes. "Is that a promise?"

"I didn't mean _there_!" Okay, _he_ was the pervert.

Jack laughed—that feathery, drowsy laugh of his; his lips spread from a smirk to a (ugh, _sexy_) shit-eating grin.

Aria poked him in the ribs, right where his bloody stitches were.

"Ow!" He jerked upright, eyes flying open to glare at her.

It was her turn to smirk. "Now take this," she said, handing him the glass of water. He wouldn't, so she grabbed his hand and made him wrap his fingers around it. "And this," she put three Tylenol in his other hand. "And drink."

He frowned suddenly and glanced around, with the look of someone who had just realized something. "It's hot in here."

"No that's just you." Oh God, yes, it really was him. "Pop those pills and you'll feel better."

His gaze fell to his hand, as if he hadn't noticed she'd placed the pills there. After another frown, he knocked the pills and the water back and swallowed.

"Good," she praised. "Do you want a cold washcloth to put on your forehead?"

He looked at her, sad-hopeful puppy eyes at full effect. "Please."

Please what? Marry me? _Well, duh._

Fearful that her thoughts would worsen from there, Aria stood to grab the cloth. Jack was still sitting upright when she returned, watching her.

"You haven't slept."

Aria shrugged. "Can't."

The look he gave her was different—searching, almost. "I'm not a serial killer or anything."

"Oh, how reassuring."

"I'm _not_."

Aria quirked her eyebrows, her eyes falling to the stitches spread across his abdomen. "Then how'd you get that?"

His open expression sealed itself off—his eyes peeled away from her and turned towards the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her. A frown tugged at his lips.

"That's what I thought," was all Aria said. She grabbed a magazine from beneath the coffee table and got to her feet.

"Wait." His skin was still unbelievably hot when his hand caught hers. "Where are you going?"

She glanced down at their joined hands. "Nowhere." Without a second thought, she seated herself at the base of the couch. "I need to make sure your fever goes down."

Jack stared at her a moment longer and nodded. He shifted to lay down once more; his eyes gradually closed and he sighed.

He never let go of her hand.

* * *

A terrible ache had stilled inside Aria sometime within the night, straight from her muscles to her bones. Dully, she noted her back was still against the couch—the awful, uncomfortable couch. The pins-and-needles sensation had crawled up her arm, where it rested on the cushion, leaving her hand sprawled out.

And empty.

The thought didn't jolt her initially. Sometime in the night—likely when he fell asleep—Jack released her hand. No biggie. If the fever had worn off, he was probably still passed out. She should get up, make some coffee, get ready to work later in the day…

So she blinked her eyes open, against the unforgiving sun.

She glanced at the couch.

That's when her heart sprung into a frenzy and her mind nearly exploded: _Jack was gone._

_No—he couldn't be._ Her feet found the floor and she rushed around the apartment, checking the bathroom, the bedroom—hell, even the _closet_. Her thoughts whirled—did he really just leave? Without an explanation?

Did she dream the whole thing?

The sheet of notebook paper resting on the kitchen counter suggested she didn't.

_I'm sorry. Wish I could explain._

_-J_

It took a moment for the entire ordeal to set in—she hit a stranger with her car (a hot stranger), took him to her home, stitched him up, held his hand the entire night… And he just left.

What a fucking bastard.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Now You See Me.**

**A/N: I am so terribly sorry for the long wait. Life got in the way and things got crazy. They still are, but I managed to make some time for this shorter chapter in hopes that the next one will be longer!**

**PS… Don't hate me.**

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**Four**

Four days passed since Aria had seen Jack. Four days full of wondering what happened to him—where he was now, if the wound was healing…Four fucking days without hearing from him.

It wasn't as if he owed her an explanation. The thought bounced in her head when she let her mind wander. She barely knew him. He didn't owe her a damn thing.

But Jesus, she couldn't help but be angry.

"You've got some new guys at the bar," Sasha, a small girl with light brown skin told Aria as she passed by.

Aria's elbows rested against the cool top of the bar; her hand propped her chin up and she stared blankly out the window at the evening's accumulating rush hour. Images danced across her mind—all were of Jack; him mumbling in his sleep, gripping her hand against his warm chest; the spots of blood dotting the bandages she taped over the wound; that sad-hopeful puppy gaze of his that just made her melt.

They were horrifying romance-novel thoughts that had no place in her head. Her usually rational, level head that had thus far managed to avoid such thoughts of him…

Oh she was weak.

"Aria." It was Sasha again, though less delicate and a lot sharper. She waved a hand across the dreamy girl's face.

Aria snapped up and blinked. Guys at the bar. Right.

The usual motions were stiff and lacked her usual life—Aria rounded the bar, mixing drinks, smiling, and making small talk. It wasn't too odd of a job for a woman her age in the city; it paid the bills and put her through school. The tips were great.

"Sex on the Beach," Sasha said, grabbing her last drink order and skirting around a group of girls. "You doing okay? You've been spaced all night."

Aria blinked. "Yeah, fine. Just tired."

Sasha didn't mask her doubtful look, but shrugged and continued on to her table anyway.

The rest of the night passed quite the same. It wasn't until one in the morning when another bartender came to relieve Aria, freeing her mind to roam as it pleased.

On her drive back home, she almost hoped she'd run into a certain someone again.

Almost.

The air conditioner rattled as she pulled into her parking space and hummed just before she cut the engine. A mammoth brick building towered above her; the complex was ugly, she thought, but affordable.

Her sporty G6 gave a chirp as she locked it and traversed the parking lot. She couldn't help but remember the last time she came home this late with a certain stranger, holding his warm body up the whole time, feeling the whisper of his breath on her cheek…

God she hated him now.

The elevator stopped at her floor and released her. Everything was as it typically was—Devin, the guy with the apartment next to the stairs, still had his screamo music on and let it pulsate through the floor. As the heavy bass faded on her way down the hallway, she heard the TV on in Mrs. Carter's room. Most of the other apartments were quiet, save for shouting here and there, babies crying… The usual.

So Aria was startled to find something very _out_ of the ordinary sitting just before her door.

A bag.

Not the cheap kind, either. This bag had high-end clothing boutique written all over it (literally, it said Bloomingdales in, like, twenty different places).

A niggling idea tried crawling into her mind, but she pushed it down. No. No it couldn't be. It wasn't—

There was a note attached to the handle.

_Thought this looked like the dress I ruined. Hope you like it._

_-J_

That tricky, charming bastard. She wanted to slap him and kiss him at the same time because no, this so obviously did _not_ look like the dress she bought—the cheap little thing she happened to see in a small storefront—because this was definitely designer and worth more than an entire month's worth of bartending.

Kicking her door shut behind her, Aria dropped her keys on the counter and held the dress up. It unfolded like water—red and dazzling and sexy. Went midway to her knees. Would totally show off her curves.

Well _goddammit_.

Another slip of paper sashayed to the ground, as if it'd been tucked inside the dress. Aria picked it up and scowled.

_Wear tomorrow night at 7. Wait here._

She tossed the note on the counter and stomped her way to her bedroom.

* * *

It seemed that whenever the mysterious Jack was involved—whether in presence or thought—sleep was something Aria just couldn't relax enough to get. Even after tossing the gorgeous dress in her closet (then woefully returning to it to hang it up neatly) and washing her face, she couldn't get those stupid notes out of her head.

What, did he think she was that kind of girl? The one he could just leave behind and make up for it with gifts? Did he think she'd forget all about waking up to find him gone? Worrying endlessly and almost without reason?

Too quickly, Aria realized she could be turning the situation into something it wasn't. Jack wasn't her boyfriend. Hell, Jack wasn't even a friend. He was just some guy she happened to hit with her car and bring back to her apartment out of sheer guilt. Just some guy she stitched up, who held her hand all night long like a little boy afraid of the dark…

God she wanted to hate him. But she couldn't.

Shoving her face into her pillow, she screamed in frustration.

He better be goddamn good at groveling.

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